


some strangle with hands of gold

by Solanaceae



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, stabbing as flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22605061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/pseuds/Solanaceae
Summary: In the long darkness of Beleriand, two old friends meet.
Relationships: Meássë/Thuringwethil (Tolkien)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	some strangle with hands of gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/gifts).



> _some kill their love when they are young  
>  and some when they are old  
> some strangle with the hands of lust  
> and some with hands of gold_
> 
> — delain, _hands of gold_

Thuringwethil scents her long before she appears—a musk-heavy smell of bloodied fur, undercut by something sharp and shadowed like cedar. It is familiar and entirely unexpected. A memory caught on the wind that she had not expected to return to her. She uncurls from her nest of dead leaves in the hollow of an ancient oak tree and moves to the opening, silent, to peer out into the mist. 

Far away, on the northern horizon, there’s a strange darkness that’s swallowed the horizon. Even Thuringwethil’s keen eyes can barely make out the difference between the mountains and the sky there. And now, carried through the open air, she catches more—an iron-heavy black scent that she knows to be Melkor, an acrid fire-smell, and something sharp that makes the fine hairs on her body prickle and rise. Silverlight and stargold that she fled long ago.

Something is happening.

She wraps her shadows around herself and lifts into the air. It is a clouded day, the stars hidden, making the perpetual darkness only deeper. Melkor is moving further north, but she focuses on the first scent she caught, which is west of her, moving at a slightly shallower angle into the mountains.

Before long, she sights a figure moving between the trees, bounding over uneven ground with easy grace. Meássë is fixated on her prey, so focused that she does not seem to notice Thuringwethil winging closer, downwind from her, until Thuringwethil is nearly upon her. Then Meássë whirls in a heartbeat, golden spear flying from her hand and arcing upwards.

Thuringwethil sees it coming and, rather than dodge, snatches it from the air. She isn’t quite fast enough to keep the point from grazing one of her wings.

“That’s no way to greet an old friend,” Thuringwethil calls down, flicking blood off the edge of her wing. 

“Thuringwethil.” Meássë grins. Her arms are streaked red from wrist to elbow: not her usual warpaint, but dark blood. Around her head, a band of gold holds back her wild mane of tawny hair. “I was wondering if I might run into you.”

“Wondering?” She descends, landing a few feet away from Meássë and folding her wings neatly back. “Or hoping?”

“Oh, I’m always  _ hoping _ .”

“You must have come a long way to visit me,” Thuringwethil says, keeping her voice deliberately light. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We come hunting a fugitive.” Meássë bares her teeth, and Thuringwethil sees blood smeared across the sharp points. “Something has been stolen from us.”

“Been careless with your treasures, have you?”

“ _ I _ have not. Melkor attacked Ezellohar and drained the light from the Trees and stole some paltry treasures.”

Thuringwethil arches an eyebrow, leaning carelessly on Meássë’s spear. “You don’t seem very mournful about that.”

“Mourning is not exactly in my—portfolio. I prefer to hunt down what bothers me.” She holds a hand out. “Give me back my spear.”

Thuringwethil flips the weapon around and offers it to Meássë blade-first. Without hesitation, she snatches it, deftly avoiding slicing her hand open on the keen edge.

“Did you come here on your own?” Thuringwethil asks. “It’s  _ terribly _ dangerous on this side of the sea, you know that, yes?”

Meássë laughs. The sound is strange under the dark trees—too bright, too dangerously, carelessly loud. “Oromë and Tulkas were blind in the darkness. I alone managed to track Melkor this far.” Her smile widens. “And I have always worked best alone.”

“That certainly depends on what you are working at.” 

“Why,  _ Thuringwethil _ .” Meássë’s eyes spark with amusement. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Thuringwethil grins, deliberately peeling her lips back from her fangs. She knows Meássë sees how they have changed, but the Vala dies not react. “It has been long since I have seen a familiar face. And you carry such a light in your blood.”

“Would you drain me of that light as Melkor did the Trees?” Meássë does not seem afraid—rather, there’s a reckless thrill in her eyes. A challenge. Thuringwethil drifts closer, letting her shadows lap at Meássë’s legs, swirl in the leaf litter at her feet.

“And what if I do?” she breathes. “We all have our desires. What do you come here to conquer? To  _ take _ ?” She inflects the last word with heat, watches how Meássë’s eyes grow darker. Meássë steps closer, spear lax at her side, head tilted with curious hunger. Their faces are close, now, and she can taste blood in the air from where it flakes and dries on Meássë’s skin.

Thuringwethil does not even see her move—there is only the sudden flare of pain in her midsection as Meássë’s spear thrusts into her. Thuringwethil snarls, instinctively throwing herself back up into the air and wrenching the blade from her gut. Blood spatters wet across the dead leaves. The wound is shallow, though far from painless, and she knows that had Meássë meant to strike in earnest, Thuringwethil would be so much ash in the wind. 

From below, Meássë meets her gaze. The blade of her spear is dark with Thuringwethil’s blood; slowly, deliberately, Meássë extends her tongue and licks it. “Come, Thuringwethil,” she calls. “This is no game. Count yourself fortunate that I choose not to take you as my  _ prey _ and run you down like the frightened animal you are.”

Blood runs hot down Thuringwethil’s body from the wound in her stomach, but the anger lancing through her chest is colder than the farthest reaches of the north. “You would find me a difficult target, Meássë. I have learned much of these lands, and you are a stranger in them. You might find yourself at my mercy.”

“I’m sure you would enjoy that.”

Thuringwethil spits the taste of iron from her mouth. “I would.”

“And what would you do with me, were I at your mercy? Drink the blood from me and taste the light you left so long ago?” Meássë’s tongue, dark with Thuringwethil’s blood, darts out over her lips as though to taste the air. “What memories would stir in you, what regret?” 

“Keep your silence,” Thuringwethil hisses, winging back down towards Meássë, who stands unflinching, watching her approach.

“Would you swallow the last of my lifeblood and watch the spark of life leave my eyes and  _ mourn _ that you had lost once again what you can never return to?” Meássë continues, merciless. Thuringwethil knows she is being toyed with, but is too furious to care. “Or would you keep me alive for as long as you could, wringing every last memory out of me, until you could no longer bear the frustration of never again—”

“ _ Silence!” _ Thuringwethil dives and strikes Meássë square in the chest with her arms, slamming her back against the tree. Faster than Meássë can react, Thuringwethil’s forearm is braced against her throat, pressing hard enough to threaten but not damage—yet. Just for an instant, Meássë looks surprised, thrown off for the first time, and Thuringwethil feels a surge of savage delight,  _ yes, fear me, I should rend you limb from limb and leave your bones bare for the forest to claim—  _

Then, infuriatingly, Meássë laughs, the sound somewhat strangled by the pressure Thuringwethil holds against her throat. “So you do still think of us in Valinor. I have missed you, if only for how easy it is to provoke you. I would say that your old mistress misses you, but—that would be a lie.”

“Why would I care what Nessa thinks of me?”

“Why indeed, if you have left all of your regret behind?”

“I barely even think of Valinor,” she spits, though the lie tastes sour on her tongue. “Here, I am unfettered by their laws and may do as I please.”

“And yet here am I, doing as  _ I _ please, while perfectly free to come and go as I please from anywhere. You should not have been so openly defiant.”

“I did no worse than you,” Thuringwethil snaps. “You joined in Melkor’s discord, but the  _ merciful _ Valar with pride-blinded eyes let you back into the fold because they thought they could  _ use _ you, weapon as you are. Think not that you would have avoided banishment had you not let them leash you as they did.”

“And what would you know of that?”

Thuringwethil lifts her chin, defiant. “I know that when I questioned the laws laid down, I was cast out. I know that sending me here was the greatest gift they never meant to give me. I know that freedom— _ true _ freedom, Meássë—is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted.”

“Sweeter than the blood you drink? How does it feel to be a specter in the dark, sucking the life of others to live as shadow in a pale imitation of a life?” Meássë’s eyes gleam. “Does this freedom satisfy you, Thuringwethil?”

_ Not as much as your death would satisfy me, _ she thinks, and knows Meássë can see the deadly intent in her eyes. She lets the threat remain unspoken for now, and instead says, “Why not stay and discover for yourself? Your hunt is yet unfinished. Your vengeance unsatisfied. Surely the she-lion of Valinor would never run back to safety when her prey remains alive.”

“I have no intent of fleeing at this moment,” Meássë says, stubbornly calm. “But nor do I have any intent of throwing away a source of power simply because those in command of it irk me. You lack foresight, you cannot see beyond your own petty emotions. I play a long game, I use those who I can use and discard them when I no longer can.”

“What do you plan?” Thuringwethil is momentarily baffled long enough to relax her grip on Meássë, who pulls away, rubbing at her bruised throat. Thuringwethil lets her. “Will you rebel against the Valar as Melkor did?”

“Melkor is powerful, and cunning enough, but still too proud. I have no doubt that were I to pound on his door and demand single combat, he would leave himself no choice but to agree.”

“And he would destroy you easily.”

Meássë shrugs, careless. “In headlong battle, perhaps. But I have larger designs than this war. Let Melkor and the rest tire themselves out by squabbling with one another. Let the Children throw themselves against Melkor’s fortress until their bodies or the gates break. I will wait, and watch, and choose my time to act.”

“What do you  _ want, _ then? To destroy the rest? To rule over everything?”

“Well.” Meássë gives her a bladed smile. “If you are truly so curious, why not join me? Watch from my side, see how this all plays out.”

“I have no desire to enmesh myself in your battle against Melkor.”

“Do you not  _ understand _ , Thuringwethil?” Meássë looks faintly frustrated. “This could be larger than any war against anyone. You could see the world change.”

Thuringwethil wavers. She does not wish to risk herself, true, but to work alongside another for the first time in so long, to be a companion of Meássë—it is tempting. Yes, she is curious about what Meássë plans, but more than that, the solitude of the darkness of Middle-earth has been so deep that she never even realized how lonely she was until she heard another’s voice.

“Besides,” Meássë says, just as she is on the verge of agreeing, “you could be useful to me.”

At that, Thuringwethil’s body tenses almost without her intention. Of course. Why would anyone, let alone someone as powerful as Meássë, look at her and think of her as anything other than a tool? Shame and anger make her voice a whip as she says, “I did not come here, escaping Valinor’s laws, to allow you to rule over me instead. I am free and without bond, and that is how I will remain.”

Meássë inclines her head, gold-tinted eyes never leaving Thuringwethil’s. “The offer remains open. I’m sure you’ll be able to find me if you wish to.”

She wants to spit out her scorn, tell Meássë she’ll never see her again, but she can’t quite get the words out of her throat. Instead, she thrusts down with her wings, taking off in a blast of air that sends leaves spinning. Up into the night sky, the forest fading into the mist behind her, and Thuringwethil can feel Meássë’s gaze on her, following her out of sight.


End file.
